


choke on your tongue so mine stays out of your mouth

by Mental_Kitten



Series: Problem Child series [5]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Popularity, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28615776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mental_Kitten/pseuds/Mental_Kitten
Summary: Or in which Wilbur Soot Watson almost topples an empire he was oblivious to.
Relationships: GeorgeNotFound/Wilbur Soot, just trust me it gets fucked lmao, sorta
Series: Problem Child series [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035459
Comments: 62
Kudos: 248





	choke on your tongue so mine stays out of your mouth

**Author's Note:**

> Personal Twitter is @KatMushy  
> Link for the Problem Child server is https://discord.gg/bHgYF6q47H  
> My personal Discord is Mental-Kitten#3047
> 
> so uhhh yeah i wrote this in two hours at 1am and the wifi broke before i could post it

_ It was infuriating. And downright sinful, truly. Who was  _ **_he_ ** _ to win? Envy was a sin, but disgust wasn’t. If his mother could pull that, then he fucking could too. _

George started swimming long before he was a freshman. He was good at it, and it was one of the few things that he could use to escape whatever issues were thrown in his face. He always felt calmer in the water, more in control. Which was ironic since she threatened to drown him so fucking much. 

When he  _ was _ a freshman, he was scared and alone. He didn’t know anyone from the little middle-of-nowhere town. Hell, he hadn’t even been in a public school before. He would’ve been fine if his mother hadn’t pulled him from the private school in Brighton. Maybe she could sense that it made him  _ happy _ .

He could remember stepping into the school, and having eyes bore into him like he was a shaved fucking rat. He missed his first three classes because he hid in the bathroom to panic. The only reason he hadn’t stayed in there was to avoid the school calling home. He had barely known his mother for a week at the time, and yet she left her  _ mark _ so distinctly. Ironic, really. 

That bathroom is where he had met Eret, actually. They had stopped in to whip what was distinctly a brown smear of blood from their face. They had barely acknowledged him, watching him splash the evidence from his face with cold water. He could see them nursing their split lip with a paper towel, watching him. 

They hadn’t spoken to each other, but George had half-assed offered them a pair of ibuprofens since he felt bad. “For the swelling.” He had tried, a fake smile crossing his features. It was easier to stay under the radar if he pretended to be nice. 

_ It ran in the family, after all. _

Eret hadn’t even thanked him, only offering a smile before disappearing out of the room with the pills. George would’ve been upset if he actually cared about the interaction. He only noticed the slip of paper they had left on the counter when he went to take his own pills, staring at the flyer. It had been an ugly brown/yellow color, declaring that the swim team would be taking applications at the end of the week. 

He had gone, naturally. Even after not seeing the other kid during that entire time. He continued to bite his tongue, and he continued to keep up the façade of a soft-spoken foreigner. He was soon able to resume his usual seat at the ‘shoulder to cry on’, hormonal idiots happy to spill their guts with a few kind words and a sympathetic look. 

He usually didn’t do anything with the information unless it was instigated, though. The purple-haired loudmouth that tried to start shit with him learned that quickly. Three days into a public school setting, and he already had the slander in everyone’s stories and group chats. It wasn’t  _ his  _ fault that her mother overdosed.

By the end of the week, no one under a certain criteria of popularity tried to interact with him. The popular girls were always a cliché he found beneficial to be on his side, which was proved right since it was easy to spread the information around them without any of them pinning the source. But by the end of the week, he was also standing in a pair of swim trunks as he was shoved to the back of the line. 

Apparently the man couldn’t do his job faster than a fucking snail, since he was having them go one-by-one to demonstrate what they knew. They were supposed to be split depending on skill level. He had been told by his mother that he had to be home  _ at nine _ , and he was learning quickly what the alternative was. 

That’s when Eret made his second appearance, introducing themself as they waited in line with him. He was polite and made small talk, but ultimately the conversation ended with them asking if he swam before. He said he did. They asked if he wanted to move up in line. He remembered trying to politely explain to him how a fucking line worked. 

“You can go if you think you’re better than the coach’s top time. He said so himself.” The words were burned into his mind, giving him a sliver of hope. He hadn’t been paying attention, so he clearly didn’t hear the man say that. Eret smiled at him, waiting for an answer. So he thanked them, polite as ever. 

He didn’t need to know what the man’s top time was. Fifty yard free stroke? He could do that shit while hungover to hell and back. He had wormed his way to the front of the line, shooting worried glances and false promises of needing something from the only adult in the room. The girls and boys alike parted for him, and soon he stood before the man. 

George simply told him that he wanted to go next, keeping an innocent and overly-excited façade up. The man bought into it, rolling his eyes like he was dealing with an  _ actual _ child. He was told he could, but was warned that he would need to do fifty yards in less than a minute or he would get sent to the very back of the line. 

He had the decency to look worried for a moment, letting the old shrew smile at him like he was expecting him to fail. Which he was. He knew the man was expecting so very  _ little  _ from him. Little George, who had just moved and was built like a fucking Barbie. But that underestimation was what saved his ass most of the time, so he learned to revel in it. 

He went next. He crouched on the diving block, listening to the man explain to him how he had to hit the water. How to keep his goggles on. How to breathe when he swam. George smiled and pretended to listen, nodding along like he gave a shit. He crouched, listened for the3 whistle, and dove. 

He got 34.76 seconds. He knew the exact number because the man had stared at it so long that someone else had to read it over his shoulder. The background noise of teenagers chatting had died down as they waited for it on baited breath. They fucking  _ knew _ . George did, too. 

George enjoyed being looked down on when he  _ shouldn’t _ have been, and got out of the water while pretending to be nervous. “Was that under a minute?” He had the man’s shocked face burned into memory. He bounced on his heels like an excited school girl as he listened to the man’s jumbled praise, waiting for the question.  _ Have you swam before? _

_ A bit.  _ He lied, chocolate eyes bright with false purity. The man tried to politely explain to him that it would’ve been a record for the school in its entirety, trying to not give George a big head. He nodded along, asking if it meant he could leave early. He did after he signed his name at the top of the list. 

Where he  _ should _ be. 

The rest of the year was rather uneventful. He clawed and sabotaged his way to the top, sitting on his throne built on tears and lies. No one knew. Or so he thought, considering that Eret would stay by his side despite how they  _ shouldn’t have _ . 

Eret was not in any of his circles. They didn’t stay with the jocks, or the populars,  _ or  _ the kids that came from money. George was the monarch of all fucking three. He didn’t understand what their fascination was with him. It wasn’t like he was going to join them with the social  _ rejects _ . Actually, that was a lie. 

Sweet,  _ angelic _ George could always hand out a few compliments to boost some of their reputations. That purple haired girl was in that circle, though. She avoided him like the fucking plague. She wouldn’t even meet his  _ gaze _ . It was funny, honestly. He knew about the knife she carried. Yet she was so scared of  _ him _ .

Clay soon joined in at the jocks table, who he sat with on Fridays and before holidays. Tuesdays were for the popular girls, and Thursday were with the popular guys. Wednesdays he sat and caught up with the spoilt brats, gathering what he needed and keeping his image up. He had actually met Schlatt through his Monday tutoring sessions, since the boy had gone a whole week before he failed fucking  _ geometry _ . 

He was surprised to see the fucker bounce between the social circles, carrying himself like he was some kind of divine gift to the poor  _ idiots _ he graced with his presences. He learned why nearly ten minutes after he noticed. Someone mentioned that their older brother got their pot from him. It took a bit of digging, but that was  _ far _ from all that guy had his fingers in. 

George met fucking  _ Techno _ through Clay. He hated the guy. He was a social deadweight with the personality of a wet couch cushion. He spotted the guy in gym changing the one time, and saw he was built like a  _ fucking grizzly bear _ . But he wouldn’t do sports. 

He also knew about Clay’s dad leaving before the oblivious idiot did. Why wouldn’t he? The one girl who ran track told everyone that some man stormed out of the hospital with his daughter after a misunderstanding with the bloodwork. George didn’t stir the pot, just probed enough to confirm why the blond runner had been so distant. 

Then Wilbur  _ fucking _ Watson came along, and Clay’s daddy issues became the furthest thing from his focus. He was Techno’s adopted older brother, so George assumed that Mr. Watson collected deadbeat stragglers he found on the road. He had a whole three days of peace before the brunette was in his face. 

Apparently he had done too well in his old history class, so he was moved up to the advanced one. Which would’ve been fine if George didn’t take the empty table  _ specifically  _ because none of his usuals were in that class with him. Not that everyone else wasn’t friendly. They knew better. 

Wilbur wasn’t popular, yet sat wherever he  _ fucking _ pleased. Wilbur wasn’t extraordinarily smart, yet he was suddenly the top in every and any class he took. Wilbur wasn’t  _ above fucking average  _ in looks, and yet he had everyone tripping over themselves just for a shred of his attention. 

George learned why. He was a fucking  _ whore _ . The rumors from ‘third parties’ about him fucking older students after detention did the opposite of what he intended, though. People who he could confirm with all but video evidence that never touched the walking  _ gloryhole _ began to brag about it. 

He was pissed. Wilbur got to be the top of everyone’s interest just because he slept the fuck around? He  _ worked  _ to get where he was. The opportunity came when Clay came to him asking about something. He kept it brief, but he smiled and pretended to care. Taking in the  _ priceless _ information. 

The party at Schlatt’s was the perfect opportunity. He didn’t drink, he didn’t smoke, and he tossed any pills passed to him over his shoulder. He was the designated driver of more than seven shitfaced members of what was the social equivalent of the upper class. 

He took someone else’s car  _ specifically  _ in case any of the motherfuckers got sick on him. Offering to watch over them also got him on the host’s good graces, since Schlatt was apparently the type to hire help. But little ol’ George didn’t stay on everyone’s good side by turning down a bit of  _ charity work _ . 

He managed to entertain Clay while keeping track of everyone, who seemed desperate to try and get him to speak to Techno. Which he wasn’t in the mood for. Saturday nights weren’t when he conversed with anyone outside of his very  _ tight  _ circle. Clay was already on the edge of it. 

He did worse in cross country, and he seemed to retract into himself. Introverts didn’t do well at the top. He had let him go, knowing about his parent’s divorce. He didn’t particularly care about how much of a corpse the guy had been, assuming that it would resolve itself. 

And it did. Clay perked up, and he seemed to triple in fucking size in that time. He also seemed to be transitioning to an all organic diet, which George  _ knew  _ was pricey. Any issues at home must’ve fixed themselves. Which was good since Clay was his only contact in that side of the running sports.

George finally found the asshole he was looking for, watching the lanky brunette inhale a bottle of rum punch like he wanted to drown himself in it. It hung heavy on his tongue once Wilbur had latched on to him, his frame pinning him to the marble kitchen counter. 

He didn’t value his body as anything more than an object, which was good considering the level he disgraced himself that night. Wilbur was fucking  _ cold  _ like some kind of walking corpse, his eyes staring through him. He could recite the conversation, the words burning in his mind whenever he recalled them. 

_ “Do you want this?”  _ The words had branded themself in his mind, and it had felt like he had gotten cracked over the head with a lead pipe as he tried to think through the haze. He fought the words rising in his throat, instantly assuming that the guy had somehow managed to drug him. 

_ I want you.  _ Even as words were pulled from his throat, even as he fought to see straight through whatever spell the fucking  _ slut _ had him under, he still twisted his words. He knew very little about what the eldest Watson boy could do. But his first taste of it made him realize that anyone who let him pull secrets from them were fucking  _ weak _ .

George ended up in a guest room by himself barely half an hour later, glaring into the ceiling. He wasn’t sure when the tears had started. He just knew that he felt fucking  _ sick _ as he locked the door behind Wilbur. Schlatt thankfully had a grand bathroom attached to every bedroom, so he scrubbed himself down. He clawed at his skin as he let the tears fall, knowing that any trace of what he was feeling would need squashed down as soon as he stepped out from the stream of cold water. 

He returned to the party barely ten minutes later, coping with the bile rising in his throat with a can of diet cola. Someone offered to mix it for him. He gave a brief explanation that he was a driver, ignoring how the taste of fruit punch and cheap liquor still coated the inside of his mouth. 

Even after scrubbing himself clean, his clothes still hung on to his fucking  _ stench _ . Wilbur reeked of fucking mint and  _ fruit _ , the sickeningly sweet haze clinging to his sweater. He was almost grateful when Skeppy puked on him and gave him an excuse to strip it off. 

George left that party without any of the information he needed, sore hips, and a broken sense of self that made him believe his mother’s words so  _ fucking  _ clearly.

\---

George helped Clay convince himself to be nasty to Techno. The blond spoke to him on the last day of his sophomore year. He told him exactly what George needed him to hear.  _ It’s like ripping off a  _ _band aid_ he said.  _ It’ll hurt less if he doesn’t care about you anymore.  _

The summer was a hellhole. Apparently  _ someone  _ found out about what Wilbur  _ did to him.  _ And of course it was someone from his circle. His throne was crumbling underneath of him, and he had to find out through fucking  _ Snapchat _ .

_ The resident Pretty Boy _ . It was a compliment, and an insult used by the ones who stared at him. The ones who  _ knew _ his reign was becoming shaky.

So he resorted to what he did best. Walking into that godforsaken social shitstorm as a junior, he got to work. He fought to keep his place on top, and he would fight to keep it. Even if it meant stabbing a few of his ‘friends’ in the back. 

He learned what happened to Clay’s mom once his dad left. He found out about the nights the boy had to go to sleep for days on end with nothing in his stomach so he could try to make sure his sister  _ didn’t _ .

He learned about how Zak would shoplift. He learned why, and how it was the reason he was secretly friends with the reject kids. 

He learned about the man Sapnap’s father was. He learned about how the boy had to flee the house when he was  _ in a mood _ .

He learned about Eret. He learned what  _ exactly  _ made them realize who they really were, and what it fucking  _ did  _ to them. 

He learned about Phil. He learned how the man was an empath from dear ol’  _ Clay _ , which reminded him of why he kept the boy around. 

But most importantly, he learned about  _ Technoblade _ . He found out the boy’s full ‘name’ and spread it like wildfire. He also learned  _ why _ Clay’s attempts to put distance between them wouldn’t work. 

George wasn’t stupid. He couldn’t afford to be. He knew about what went on, even if he couldn’t understand it. Even if he was  _ apart _ of him. Bad could see too well at night, Sapnap started fires without so much as a match, and  _ Wilbur _ .

Wilbur  **_motherfucking_ ** Watson wasn’t only a  _ whore _ , he was also a sick little  _puppeteer_. It took some delicate probing, and multiple slip-ups that cost him weeks of progress, but he got people to break. They talked about how they just couldn’t say  _ no  _ to him. 

_ It’s so hard to  _ **_lie_ ** _ to Wilbur. It’s so hard to  _ **_keep anything_ ** _ from Wilbur. It’s so hard to  _ **_stay mad_ ** _ at Wilbur.  _

It was bullshit. George could do  _ all three _ . He made up an allergy to cherries because of it. He woke up in a cold sweat because he could feel the cold of the other boy’s fingers pressing against his flesh because of it. He was stared at because of it. 

His only outlet became swimming. He pushed himself further and harder, loving how the burning of his muscles helped to dull the ache in his chest when people gave him those  _ less than innocent  _ glances. The water rushing around him helped him forget the whispers about how  _ The lucky bastard was the one to  _ **_take_ ** _ him _ . The gazes full of envy from other schools during swim meets helped him ignore the longing ones that came from those on his  _ own goddamn team _ .

But Wilbur was good at ruining him, wasn’t he? The fucking  _ worm  _ was quicker than he should’ve been for dicking around during practice. He was  _ better _ than he fucking deserved to be. His times steadily dropped, until he was  _ just _ behind George. 

Wilbur swam like a fucking  _ fish _ . For no goddamn reason! It was just another one of the things George fought for that he could just  _ do _ . His breaking point was when Wilbur beat him. In public, no less. In front of  _ everyone _ .

It had been less than half a second. But 27.84 seconds made his 28.21 seconds look like  _ shit _ . To him, at least. He didn’t believe the times when they were called, on the verge of a breakdown. He left immediately after, making up some excuse about how he felt ill. He sobbed into his hands in the parking lot, away from prying eyes. Not that anyone would tear their focus from  _ him _ .

George skipped the next day at school, staying up the entire night to go through the  _ notebooks _ of information he had on everyone. He was hysterical the entire night, to the point that his  _ own mother _ left him the fuck alone. He was in another fit of scream-crying when it happened. 

He outright tossed the books aside, fully intending to throw himself into his duvet and scream for another half an hour. His voice was already scratch and raw enough that he sounded like he had strep. The royal blue notebook hit the ground, something flopping out as the spine bounced off the ground. 

He stared at it for a bit, his vision still blurry and his throat still raw. He picked it up, not remembering why there was a  _ loose note _ in one of his most important notebooks. On a fucking paper towel, no less. He unfolded it, deciding that he would wipe his face with it if it wasn’t of any value. 

It turned out to be  _ exactly  _ what he needed. 

\---

“Wilbur! I need to talk to you, if you have a moment?” George’s voice was soft and timid, which was mostly because getting any louder made it evident that his throat was raw. He wasn’t wasting his pain tolerance on  _ Wilbur _ .

“Of course,  _ Gogy _ . What’s up?” He ignored the taste that is tone left in his mouth. Of course Wilbur would  _ flirt _ . For all he knew, they were on good terms. 

“Privately?” A flutter of lashes and a nervous glance at the pair Wilbur had been speaking to had the brunette on his feet. Fundy and Nikki of all fucking people didn’t need to know. Especially since Nikki was on the level to dominate the popular girl’s circle. 

He forced small giggles and honest-enough responses to the small talk. Wilbur was so focused on  _ him _ that he didn’t know where they were going. The first floor computer lab didn’t have windows or a glass plane on the window. He tugged the taller boy inside, flicking the lock and staring up at him. 

Wilbur moved faster than him, sliding closer. “What do you want,  _ George _ ?” Was practically fucking  _ purred  _ into his hear, making him thankful that it was a fasting week. If not, he would’ve been tempted to vomit. But, making yourself vomit was for  _ middleschoolers _ .

He heard the hum in Wilbur’s fucking tone, even as the cold grip was on his hip. He pressed his back against the door, his heart beating through his chest as he tried to keep his composure. “I want you to stop.  _ Please _ .” 

George swallowed dryly as Wilbur backed off, his face burning with shame as the brunette spouted apologizes. He needed to stay calm, or he would slip up again. 

“I also want you to quit the team, and stay the  _ fuck _ out of my business.” It felt so good to let the venom sink into his tone. The soreness from the previous day’s screaming made him sound worse. Less  _ soft _ .

“What are you talking about?” The fog was around him again, but he steadied himself as he recognized the slightest  _ tremor  _ in his tone. George was calm. He was in control. 

“Wednesday is Lyn’s birthday.” He spouted, words still being pulled from his mouth. It was so  _ satisfying  _ to watch him recoil like he was struck. 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

“I know. I’m not under your fucking thumb,  _ Wilbur _ . I never wanted you to touch me.” The look of helplessness he was getting made the waiting and the planning and the  _ heartache _ so very, very worth it. 

“I didn’t-” He looked exactly how George had been feeling, paralyzed with fear as things he  _ couldn’t control _ were thrown in his face. 

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” He spat. “What  _ does _ matter is that you’re going to stop swimming, and  _ stay in your lane _ . You’re going to stay with the rejects  _ were you  _ **_belong_ ** .” 

Wilbur’s mouth had parted at some point, making him look like that horrible painting he had seen a copy of in art class. It was fitting, honestly. He  _ deserved _ it.

“You stop swimming, you stop sucking up with anyone outside of  _ your _ cliché, and this stays here.” George watched the gears turn, his eyes flashing with something as it seemed to catch up. 

“George, I’m sorry. But I can’t just-” 

“You will. Or I walk out of this room and hire the best lawyer on this fucking  _ continent  _ and buy the judge out. Or maybe I go right to your  _ father _ .” George wasn’t sure why his eyes were burning, but his voice was steady. Which was good enough. 

“Why would Phil side with you?” Wilbur sounded unsure of himself, stepping back as his panicked gaze tried to pick apart  _ something _ from his glare. He wasn’t stupid enough to give him a foothold. Not now. Not after  _ everything he’d been through _ . 

“I’m sure your empathic father would love to learn about how you fucking  _ ruined _ me, Watson.” He did his research. Clay’s notes and the internet let him know that the man would be able to  _ feel  _ it. If he still sided with his son, then George would send the brunette to jail. 

He had it planned out to the very last detail. Wilbur is publicly slandered, and George’s pity fest about what happened is the boost he needs to  _ demolish _ any unrest amongst his subordinates. Money wasn’t an issue for him, and the Watson family would learn that the hard way if they had to. 

“Know your  _ fucking _ place, since you’ve already overstepped. I’m being generous. You deserve so much  _ worse _ .” George was choking up on himself, the tears flowing as the memory replayed itself. He was suddenly suffocated with the scent of fruit punch and the feeling of  _ him _ .

  
_ “The taste of you will haunt me until I fucking  _ **_die_ ** _.” _


End file.
